The Whole Truth
by cats-tale
Summary: Alex has asked Gene many times why he really left Manchester and he's never been able to give her a proper answer. Today of all days, can Gene deal with his grief and guilt and tell Alex the whole truth?


**Yes, I know, I'm supposed to be writing the last chapter of Dearly Beloved, but this keeps getting in the way. It's a slight departure from my usual pairing but I couldn't help it. They just wouldn't go away and so I had to write it.**

**All I can say in my defence, is that at least it's a one-shot, albeit a long one, and there's no cliffhangers. :-)**

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The pub was packed and everybody seemed to be under the mistaken impression that the barman should serve them first. Nobody was prepared to move from their place and Gene cursed creatively as he tried to fight his way back from the bar with the drinks. Fucking twats – couldn't they see he was struggling? That was the problem with people these days; no bloody manners, not even when a superior police officer was present.

When he was half way across the room, Ray appeared and took a couple of the glasses from the tray, which made things a little easier, but Gene's face was still tight with pain as he resumed his seat in the corner that the Fenchurch East officers had claimed as their own. Chris, still as pale and silent as he had been when he'd arrived at the church, nodded his thanks and knocked back his whisky before taking a huge gulp of his pint, clearly needing the alcohol to steady him. Gene didn't blame him. He was tempted to do the same himself, watching his own glass tremble in his hand. Funerals were always a bastard of a thing to deal with, but this was definitely one of the worst. They were saying goodbye to one of their own and it had brought home to them all just how little time there was left.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and Alex slid into the seat next to him. "You all right?" she asked him, her smile soft and her eyes full of concern.

He gave her a brusque nod. "I'm fine" he snapped, instantly regretting his bad temper and reaching out to clasp her hand in his. "Sorry, luv. I didn't mean it. I'm just a bit tense, that's all. Forgive me."

She squeezed his hand tightly in return. "It's OK. You're bound to be on a day like today. All that shared history. It's difficult for all of us."

Gene shrugged, his mouth turned down into a grimace, but he grasped her fingers tighter in his, trying to stem the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ray stand and jerk his head at Chris. "Come on. I can see Wally Barton over there. I haven't seen that old bastard for years. Let's go and find out what he's been up to."

Gene watched them go. Good old Ray; still brilliant as ever at deducing his moods. Mind you, so he bloody should be after all this time. For once, Chris took the hint and left them to it, following Ray across to the other side of the bar, nodding hello to old friends as he went.

"Why didn't Shaz come with him?" Alex asked. "He's always lost without her."

"She's looking after the grandchildren for their Louise. She can't take any time off this close to Christmas apparently." Gene was silent for moment. "It's a shame they never met. I think Shaz would have liked Annie. They'd have had a lot in common."

"Well, for start, they both had a rude and cantankerous old git for a DCI."

"Oi, enough of that, if you please, Alex. I'm not that bad these days. I'll have you know that many people say I've mellowed with age.

Alex grinned, glad that she had been able to make him smile, studying the other mourners as she noted just how many people Chris and Ray knew in the crowded bar. Annie Tyler had been the first female CID officer in the GMP and the high degree of respect that she had commanded was clear from the large number of old colleagues that had made the trip down from Manchester for her funeral. A couple of them were heading in Gene's direction and he stood up to greet them, shaking their hands and talking about old times. Alex sat quietly and left them to it. This was his past, not hers, and it was good to hear Gene reminisce. He didn't often get the chance these days.

She sipped at her drink, still finding it hard to believe that such a vital, vibrant woman as Annie was gone forever. She would miss her dreadfully as they'd shared so much in recent years. Alex had got to know her just over seven years ago when they'd met at a conference on criminal profiling. They'd both been a part of the lecture team and had immediately formed a tentative bond that had developed into a close working friendship. The minute she'd spoken to her, Alex had felt an instant connection to Annie, but she'd never revealed the true extent of her dealings with Sam. They were best left unsaid and to be truthful, her memories were so hazy now that she couldn't be sure any more of what had been real and what had been a dream.

She'd been surprised to learn that Annie had never returned to CID after Sam had died. Instead, she'd moved to Nottingham and returned to university to complete a PHD, before joining the East Midlands police and becoming one of the foremost figures in developing the role of criminal profilers within the force. Alex had worked with her on a number of projects, but outside of work, Annie had obviously had clear boundaries about her personal life and she'd always politely but firmly resisted Alex's efforts to take their friendship to another level, turning down all of her invitations to come to dinner whenever she was in London.

They'd talked about Annie's family though, many times, even though Alex had never met them and she knew that the thin, drawn looking man over by the bar was Annie's second husband, Dennis, and that the handsome young man next to him was their son, Stephen. She recalled that he was at university in Edinburgh, studying to be a vet and that he'd taken a sabbatical 3 months ago when his mother's cancer had first been diagnosed. She couldn't see Annie's daughter anywhere, though, which was a shame. She was a chip off the old block, by all accounts; a Detective Sergeant and a rising star in the Greater Manchester Police, just as her mother had been. Alex had seen her briefly from a distance at the church, but hadn't had a chance to introduce herself.

She switched her attention back to Gene, never tiring of looking at the sweep of his eyelashes, the long elegant fingers curled around his glass, the piercingly bright silver/blue of his eyes that still had the power to captivate her, even after all this time. He was still tall and imposing, his shoulders framed beautifully by his immaculately tailored black suit.

Gene was, quite simply, everything to her and she couldn't imagine life without him. In her worst hours, he'd always been there, talking to her, holding her hand, telling her how much he loved her. He'd been a light in the darkness of her despair. She'd been lost and he had found her, rescuing her from all the confusion and pain, a constant presence even when others told him to give up on her, and she would never be able to express how much his enduring faith and love had meant to her.

Alex saw him shift uncomfortably, trying to rest most of his weight on his good leg. He'd been standing up and talking for a good five minutes or so now and she knew that he was in pain, even though he'd never admit to such a thing. His right leg had never been the same since he'd been shot during an armed siege almost twenty years ago whilst trying to protect a number of hostages. He'd been decorated for his bravery, but his hip had been badly damaged and he'd had to give up his place at the helm of Fenchurch East CID, moving to less active duties and eventually reaching the rank of Chief Superintendent, even though in his opinion "he was no bloody use to anyone, stuck behind a sodding desk."

She went to join their conversation, taking his arm, seemingly from affection, but really lending him her support so that he wouldn't have to give in the pain and resort to fetching the silver topped walking stick that he had deliberately left in the car. She knew that he didn't want to lose face in the presence of his old friends. He was a living legend; the Gene Genie, the Manc Lion, even if his unruly mane of hair was silver and not blond these days. At the age of 71, Gene was still as strong and uncompromising as he'd always been and there was no way he'd let anyone think otherwise. He flashed Alex a grateful smile, slipping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close.

She was trying to work out a subtle way of getting them all to sit down and talk without Gene getting huffy at her interference, when Dennis announced that the food was now ready. Within minutes, everyone had drifted away, making for the buffet tables in the adjoining room, leaving the two of them alone in the bar.

"Hungry?" Gene asked and she shook her head. "I don't think so."

"No, me neither," he admitted, sitting down again with a grateful sigh, stretching out his leg with its treacherously unreliable hip. Bloody surgeons; they'd promised him that they'd try and make it good as new, but it had been beyond their capabilities. He'd been left with a limp and it had only worsened over the years, despite them giving him a new hip nine years ago. He hated being like this; hated the nagging pain that often plagued him these days, a constant reminder of his increasing age. Still he'd had a good run really, all things considered. He might be a half-crippled old git, but as long as he had Alex by his side, then he could cope with whatever crap life chose to throw at him. There had been a time when he'd thought that he'd never find happiness again, but that had been before Alex had arrived in his life.

She reached over and took his hand again, knowing that he was finding the whole occasion difficult to deal with and he looked over at her, marvelling, as he had done a million times before, how lucky he was that this beautiful woman was his and had been for so many wonderful years. She was as beautiful to him now as she always been, her still enviably slim figure shown off by her stylish black wrap-dress, her silvery grey hair cut in a sharp bob, and subtle makeup accentuating the greeny/gold of her incredible eyes. Old and knackered he may be, but his Bolly was as elegant and self-assured as she'd always been and she could still turn plenty of heads with her strikingly classic beauty.

There'd been a time when he'd thought he'd lost her forever. A time when he'd paced the hospital corridors, half mad with terror, praying for her to live, waiting for what seemed like an eternity as the surgeons had battled to remove his bullet from her body. She'd been in a coma for days afterwards; a post-surgery infection, they'd said. He'd sat by her bed all that time, talking to her, apologising for the way he'd treated her, for the cruel things he'd said to her, begging her to come back to him.

And slowly, painfully, she had, although it hadn't been as her old self at first. She'd been incredibly confused, almost mad with grief, but no-one had known why. She'd kept telling them about someone called Molly, how she'd gone back and Molly had been dead. "He shot her by the river, he killed her….. he took her and now she's gone forever….". She'd kept repeating it, over and over, until her throat had been raw with tears and the doctors had had to sedate her for her own good.

It had taken her longer to recover from whatever she'd experienced while she was in the coma than it did for her to physically heal from the shooting, but he'd made sure that he'd been with her every step of the way, even on the days when she'd been so confused that she'd hardly recognised him. He'd never given up hope, not even when the doctors had just shaken their heads gravely when he'd asked about her mental health. He'd been sure that she would get better; she had to. He loved her. He couldn't contemplate life without her, and one day he'd told her so, his words slow and hesitant, his hand gripping hers as she'd stared blankly from the window of her hospital room.

His faith had been repaid in full though. One morning, Alex had greeted him with a shy smile, her old smile, before taking his hands in hers and thanking him for being there for her. She'd told him that she loved him too. That she needed him; that she'd come back to him because he was the only person she wanted to be with when her world had ended. "Don't ever go away, Gene. There's no-one else now. They're all gone. You're the only one. The one constant thing in this world." He hadn't fully understood the last bit, but it hadn't really mattered. All he'd cared about was that his Bolly was back and he would never let her go again.

"Gene......... Gene?........If I ask you something, will you give me a straight answer?" Alex's voice broke into his daydreams and he dragged himself back to the present. Her tone was serious and he knew instinctively what she was going to ask him. He'd been waiting for it ever since they'd arrived earlier that morning and in many ways it was a relief. He held her gaze as she continued. "Why did you really leave Manchester? I've asked you time and time again, and you've never explained things properly. Please tell me why. I need to know why you left everything behind and started again. …….. Tell me the truth, Gene. The whole truth."

He studied her face, knowing that he could tell her now. Alex was, and had always been, everything to him, right from the minute he'd met her, even if it had taken him a while to realise it. She was his best friend, his soul mate and he knew that he could finally tell her the truth without fear that she would judge or condemn him. There was no need to hide it any more. In his mind's eye, he saw the graveyard, the crowd of silent mourners watching the coffin as it was slowly lowered into the frozen ground, and he sent up a silent prayer of forgiveness as he prepared to unburden himself of the secret he'd kept for so long.

"It wasn't anybody's fault. It just happened…we couldn't help ourselves, neither of us could…….

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It had started at the memorial service; well, that's when it had started for him. He couldn't say for certain about her. They didn't talk about things like that when they were together, anyway. They were always too lost in each other to speak and those sorts of conversations would have only brought the real world far too close for comfort.

He'd managed to maintain a grim, stoical demeanour throughout the entire thing, not even shedding a tear when he'd had to stand up in front of everyone and make a speech. It had been a matter of personal pride; he couldn't bear to let anyone know just how shattered he really was. He'd been saying goodbye to her family outside the pub where they'd held the wake and she'd suddenly clung to him, hardly able to stand, the sobs racking her painfully thin frame. He'd put his arms round her hesitantly, at a total loss as to how to deal with the situation. Truth was, he'd felt like sobbing himself.

"Come on..... Sam wouldn't want to see you like this…..don't cry, Annie....please luv."

She'd only held him tighter as she'd heard his uncharacteristically soft words and he'd had to lift her arms away from his neck and take a step back, appalled at the feelings that her embrace had awakened in him. He should be thinking about Sam, not about how the feel of his widow's arms around him suddenly made his knees buckle. His bloody wife was standing next to him, for Christ's sake! He'd left hastily, dragging Irene away from a conversation with Annie's mum, hating himself for feeling as he did.

He'd got drunk that night; roaring, stinking, falling-down drunk. It was only what everybody expected him to do. Sam had been his best friend, his only real friend and everyone in CID knew that he'd been devastated by his death. It wasn't just the loss of a friend that had made him drink so much, though. It was his guilty conscience.

Irene had left a blanket for him on the sofa, knowing from experience that he would just crash into a drunken stupor, unable even to make it up the stairs. She'd never wanted him in her bed when he was that drunk anyway. She'd said he stank of beer and snored all night; fair point, he supposed.

That night had been different. Sleep had eluded him and he'd remained awake for ages, thinking about Sam, and the memorial service and trying to kid himself that he hadn't felt a rush of longing for Annie as he'd held her in his arms. He had no idea why he'd suddenly felt as he'd done, and he'd prayed fervently to whichever gods may have been listening that he would never, ever feel that way again. He'd lain there in the cold dark, remembering his friend, fighting not to break down as the enormity of his loss had swept over him. If he felt this hopeless about everything, how the fuck must Annie feel, facing the rest of her life without Sam. They'd been made for one another; that much had been obvious, right from the moment they'd clapped eyes on each other in his office.

He'd never really been sure about how he'd felt about that, really. He was aware that there'd always been a part of him that was uncomfortable about Sam and Annie. Sam had been _his_ DI, _his_ friend and the last thing he'd wanted was him canoodling in corners with some soppy plonk. If he was honest, it had pissed him off that he'd had to share Sam with her. Blokes should stick together on a Friday night after work, not ponce off to the cinema with their girlfriends. Mind you, strangely, he'd envied them their relationship at the same time as hating it. They were so in love. Gene couldn't ever remember feeling like that about anyone. He loved Irene, she was a good woman, but he wasn't "in love" with her and he didn't think he ever had been – not like Sam and Annie were.

Irene had joked once that anyone would think he was jealous of Annie, and the more he'd thought about, the more he realised that she'd been right. He _was _jealous of her; jealous of her hold over Sam, jealous of the attention he devoted to her. Bizarrely, he hadn't been at all bothered that Annie had fallen for Sam. His jealously didn't seem to work that way round and he'd certainly never entertained any notion that Annie should have been with him instead. He was her Governor and she was much too young for him, never mind the fact that he was a married man and quite frankly, it was hard enough keeping one woman happy, let alone adding another to the equation.

That wasn't to say that he didn't appreciate her charms from afar. He'd have had to have been blind not to notice her; Annie Cartwright was a beautiful looking woman, with a great pair of legs and curves in all the right places. He'd be the first to admit that he'd often caught himself staring at her tits and drifting of into a little fantasy of his own imagining, especially after the day she'd gone into the Gazette Offices dressed in a nurse's uniform. It wasn't serious though. It was just something he did to pass the time while they waited in the car on a stake out, or when he was alone and bored in his office, battling through his ever-growing pile of sodding bloody paperwork.

He knew that Sam's conquest of Cartwright had upset some of the other blokes at the station, though. Annie was "their" pretty little plonk and according to them, it should have been one of them that got to see her naked, not some jumped-up little prick of a DI from Hyde. He could se their point, but none of them had stood a chance against Sammy Boy's charms and right from the start, Annie had made it plain that she only had eyes for him. They'd been married before the year was out and as far as he could tell, they'd been blissfully happy, right up to day that Sam had died.

He'd managed to avoid seeing her for nearly a week after the funeral as he'd been too scared to face her again, but eventually, one afternoon Irene had made him drive her round to Annie's house for tea.

"Come on, Gene. Annie's a good friend and I hate to think of what she'd going through. I know you don't like socialising, but please try and make some sort of effort, for her sake, at least."

He'd sat on the sofa, making polite but meaningless conversation with her Auntie Joan who was staying for a while, watching as Annie poured the tea and cut them all a slice of sponge cake. He'd felt light-headed with relief. It was OK. He didn't feel anything; no desire, no longing, nothing but sorrow for Annie's quiet but obvious grief. He'd heaved a deep sigh, letting out all his pent-up tension and had offered to take the tea tray back out to the kitchen; anything to get him out of the front room and its stifling heat.

He'd sneaked down the garden for a quick fag when he'd heard footsteps behind him and had frozen, knowing just who it was going to be.

"Can I have one" she'd asked and he'd shrugged, fumbling in his coat pocket for his cigarettes.

He'd watched her carefully, noting just how pale and drawn she'd been; dark circles smudging the skin under her eyes, her face set and blank. "Sam always said it was a filthy habit. I'm not sure I should be encouraging you Annie."

It had been her turn to shrug, reaching out to take the proffered cigarette, her fingers brushing his as she'd done so and a sudden spark of desire had juddered it's way down his spine, making him suck in his breath in horrified surprise.

They'd leaned against the wall at the end of the small garden, each of them lost in their own silence, their entwined cigarette smoke wreathing up into the foggy January air. The garden had been bare and lifeless and he'd realised that she'd been shivering with cold, her hand trembling as she'd dragged fiercely on her cigarette.

"You should go in. You'll catch your death."

She'd shaken her head. "No. It's better out here. I just feel numb in there. Like its all dream and at some point I'll wake up and Sam'll…." she'd broken off, begin to cry, choking on her sobs…. "and Sam will…" she stopped again, unable to get the words out.

"And Sam'll be there…" he'd finished for her, his chest aching with the same pain, pulling her into the warm circle of his arms, wanting nothing more than to comfort her in her grief. He'd rubbed her back, whispering comforting, but ultimately useless phrases into her hair, conscious of the net curtains twitching in the neighbouring windows, and all too aware of Annie's softly desirable body pressed against his. Bastard, he'd raged at himself. She needs you to take care of her, not turn into some bloody perv who gets a stiffy whenever you touch her.

Slowly Annie's sobs had subsided, but she'd stayed where she was, her cheek pressed against his chest, her hands splayed out across his back under his coat, the heat from them searing into his skin. When he could stand it no longer, he'd gently pulled away from her, steering her back into house as quickly as he could, depositing her into the care of Auntie Joan whilst he'd made it clear to Irene that the visit was over.

He'd seen her twice at the station after that; once when she'd come to collect Sam's things from his locker and then again when she'd come to show him the doctor's certificate that had entitled her to a month's compassionate leave. He'd been scrupulously polite to her on both occasions, making sure that everyone else in CID also treated her with respect. He wasn't going to have any of those idiots upsetting her with some tactless remark.

"I don't know what I'd do without you, Guv," she'd told him as he'd walked her to the front desk and made sure that there was a patrol car waiting to drive her home.

Much to his embarrassment, she'd hugged him goodbye both times, causing the lads to make stupidly crude remarks until he'd roared at them all to shut the fuck up, banging his office door closed with enough force to shake the glass in the partitions.

He'd told himself that he'd lost his temper because he was furious with them all for being so insensitive, but in his heart he'd known that it was because he was ashamed of how Annie had made him feel. She'd made him feel wanted. It wasn't so much desire he'd felt for her, so much as longing. She was so helpless, so broken by Sam's death, and it was clear that she needed him.

She'd made him feel so strong and protective when she'd hugged him and he hadn't felt like that for years, not on such a personal level anyway. He was used to people wanting his help, of looking to him to protect them from all the scumbags out there, but they didn't really need him – they needed DCI Hunt, the Gene Genie, the man with the badge. Annie needed the real him, the man he was behind the fearsome reputation and as much as he'd tried not to think about it, he'd known that he'd desperately needed her too.

He'd never let anyone know the truth about how he felt, but Sam's death had almost destroyed him. He couldn't see how he was going to continue without him. They'd been a team, closer than brothers and he hadn't known who to turn to for comfort. He couldn't talk to Ray as he'd hated Sam; always had done from the minute he'd arrived from Hyde, concussed and shouting his mouth off about his desk and where the hell was it. Chris had worshipped Sam and had been badly affected by his death, but there was no way that he'd been going to pour his heart out to Skelton. It wouldn't have been right; he was only a DC, for God's sake, and a moronic one at that.

He'd tried talking to Irene about it, but she didn't really understand. She was obviously upset about Sam's death; she'd got to know him and Annie well over the last few years, but she couldn't appreciate just how gutted he was. It hadn't been entirely Irene's fault; the main problem had been that she just wasn't part of his world. You could never understand the unbreakable bonds that bound coppers together if you weren't one yourself.

Predictably, his way of solving the problem had been to get drunk every night, but it hadn't taken away any of the aching desolation that he'd felt. The truth was he hadn't known how to grieve. He'd never had the chance to before; not for his father and not for his brother either.

When his old man had died, he'd felt nothing but a sense of relief that he was free of the evil old bastard for ever, and when Stuart had been found dead in one of the derelict warehouses by the canal, the needle still in his arm, it was as if yet another huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He'd been relieved that his weak, stupid, twat of a brother was free from the nightmare of being addicted to drugs, relived that he would never have to bail him out the shit again, relieved that their Mam could grieve for Stuart properly and not have to cry in private for her delinquent waster of a son. Gene had always known what most people had thought of Stu and so he'd never felt that he'd had any right to grieve for just another stupid junkie tosser. So he'd just put on a brave face and got on with his life, concentrating on ridding his streets of drugs and the filthy bastards that sold them.

He'd done the same when Sam died; immersed himself in the job, forcing himself to think about nothing but work; not Sam, not his all encompassing grief, and certainly not Annie. It had worked for a while too, until the evening that she'd come to see him at home and then, in one single moment, everything had unravelled and he'd been powerless to stop it.

Irene had gone to bingo with her friends and he'd been nursing a whisky in the peace and quiet of the front room, staring into space and thinking of nothing in particular. The sound of the doorbell had made him jump and he'd cursed loudly, thinking it was the Pools man come to collect his money, or maybe Edna from next door on one of her innumerable visits to cadge tea, sugar or fags from Irene.

He'd flung the door back angrily ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind, but as soon as he'd seen her standing there, all his temper had vanished, to be replaced by an almost embarrassed awkwardness that he hadn't felt since he was a young man. Annie had seemed awkward too, hesitating on the doorstep for a moment before following him down the hall into the font room.

"I brought you these," she'd said in a rush, putting down a large carrier bag full of records. "They're his……_were_ his….they were Sam's. I won't play them again, and I know that you and him always talked about music, so I thought you might like them….Sam would have liked you have them……there's some photos in there, too…. some from the Christmas party… I've just had them developed…I got two sets because I thought you might want some of them….."

She'd laughed wildly and stopped, a hand pressed over her mouth. She'd shaken her head, tears glistening in her eyes, a blush creeping up the sides of her neck and cheeks. "I'm so sorry Guv. I'm babbling…. It's just that I haven't been out recently…Auntie Joan's gone home to Nottingham and I don't get to talk to anyone much now…." She'd laughed again even though what she was saying wasn't remotely funny and Gene had heard the edge of hysteria in her tone.

"Look…. just sit down….. sit there, luv, and I'll make you a cup of tea" He'd surprised himself with those words, and judging by her bemused expression, Annie had been nonplussed by his gentleness too. He'd escaped into the kitchen, making the tea with shaking hands, dreading going back into the sitting room. He'd forced himself to get a grip. Jesus Christ, stop being so bloody ridiculous! It was only Annie, for Christ's sake. He'd known her for years and now he'd owed it to Sam to try and help her through her grief.

They'd talked about work; a nice neutral subject, avoiding all mention of Sam. The only dodgy moment had been when he'd handed her the cup and saucer and his fingers had brushed hers, just as they had on the day she'd taken the cigarette. He'd felt the same terrifying judder of desire run down his spine and twist into his guts. She'd looked up at him then, gazing into his eyes, and he'd seen the need in her face, the hunger for human contact. He'd gone to sit on the opposite side of the room from her, keeping as much distance between them as he could

When the tea was finished, she'd gathered up her things and he'd walked her to the front door. In the narrow hall, it was inevitable that she would brush against him and just as his hand reached out to undo the door latch, she'd laid a hand on his arm and looked up at him, her eyes full of sorrow.

"All this time and I've never asked you. How are you, Guv? You never say anything, but I know how much Sam meant to you and you seem so lonely without him."

That had been his undoing; her look of soft concern and the gentle understanding in her voice. He'd felt something crack deep inside and all his unspoken grief had welled up, the tears starting in his eyes, his throat closing over. He'd turned his head away from her, not wanting her to see him cry, but it had been hopeless. As he'd tried in vain to regain his composure, he'd felt her arms come round him, holding him as he'd given into to his pain and broken down. He'd clung to her, unable to resist, resting his cheek against the top of her head, letting his tears flow, and for the first time since Sam had died, he'd felt a sense of comfort, a sense of belonging.

He'd have been content with just that; with that one pure moment of emotion, knowing without doubt that she'd understood exactly how he felt, but then she'd moved, turning her face up to his, her hand cupping his cheek. To this day, he never knew why he'd done what he did next; maybe he'd wanted her to know how much pain he was in, had wanted to show her that he felt the same way as she did. He'd been over and over it a thousand times over the years and all he really knew was that he'd been unable to help himself as he'd turned his face into her palm and kissed it, his free hand coming up to tangle in her dark hair.

"Annie" he'd croaked, hoarse with tears and he could hear the loneliness and longing in his voice.

"Hush" she'd murmured, her stormy blue eyes cloudy with a strange mixture of pain and desire. She'd gazed at him for what seemed like forever before she'd moved to kiss him, her lips brushing his tentatively. He'd been shocked, frozen into immobility, unable to believe what was happening, but then he'd felt the tip of her tongue gently trace its way along the seam of his lips and he'd been lost. His mouth had opened under hers with a groan and suddenly there was no going back. They couldn't stop. They'd kissed each other frantically, breathless with mutual need and he'd felt her hands on his skin of his chest as she'd pulled the buttons of his shirt undone.

He'd dragged his mouth from hers, desperately trying to do the right thing. "Annie, no…Annie…please........we can't…we mustn't…this isn't right."

She'd fixed him with a desperate stare, the tears running down her face. "I know it's wrong, but I need this… I need you. I want to feel something….. when you touch me you make me feel alive ….you're the only one that understands…the only one who loved him as much as I did…."

He'd almost cried out with the agony of knowing that what she'd said was the truth. No one else understood; no one but her, and she'd needed him so much. She'd leaned forward and kissed him again fiercely, her mouth devouring him.

"Make me feel alive again, just for a moment…."

He'd nodded, saying nothing as they made their way up the stairs, refusing to let himself think of anything but how much they needed each other. He'd avoided his bedroom, that was just plain wrong, leading her into the spare room instead, collapsing onto the bed with her as they'd torn at each others clothes. She'd lain back, her eyes wild, her dress rucked up around her hips, her hands all over him, and he'd dipped his head, licking at her throat, her breasts, sucking at the peak of one nipple, grazing it with his teeth, making her gasp with need. She'd bucked her hips urgently under his and he'd slipped a hand down between her legs, feeling her soaking wet and ready for him.

"Yes" she'd whispered, urging herself against him as he'd pushed into her fiercely, desperate for some sense of release. "Harder" she'd moaned, her face twisted painfully with grief and need and he'd done as she'd asked, driving into her, losing himself in the sweetness of her body, pouring all his grief and anger into that one moment of bliss, that moment of forgetting where everything faded away and he was lost to the world. He'd felt her writhe under him, her fingers digging into the small of his back, he'd heard her wordless scream of pleasure as she'd found her own release, and he'd let go, spilling into her with a groan, burying his face briefly in her neck before rolling away from her, utterly appalled at what he'd just done.

She'd tidied herself up quickly, smoothing down the wrinkled skirt of her dress, not looking at him until she was all buttoned-up and presentable again. He'd followed her silently downstairs, expecting her just to leave without a word, expecting her to be as consumed with shame and regret as he was. Instead, she'd turned towards him, her fingers brushing the line of his jaw. "Thank you" she'd whispered as she'd kissed his cheek and with that, she'd gone, walking briskly up the street and turning the corner without a backward glance.

It had been, he'd realised afterwards, a frenzy of grief. The two of them had been oblivious to anything else; each one of them lost in their own respective pain. He'd gone back upstairs to remake the bed and to take a shower. He'd hadn't even begun to know what to think about his behaviour. He was a married man, had been for nearly twenty years and he'd never shagged anyone else in all that time. He'd hadn't been an angel; he was well aware that there'd been plenty of times in the past when he'd had a bit of a kiss and a grope with the girls in Warren's club, but he'd always known where to draw the line. On those particular evenings, he'd gone home to Irene, slightly drunk and very horny and she'd been more than enough to satisfy him. And now, he'd betrayed her in the worst way possible; he'd slept with the widow of his best friend. He'd scrubbed at his skin, turning the heat up until the water was almost scalding, trying to wash away his guilt.

But however guilty he'd felt, it hadn't stopped him sleeping with Annie again when she'd appeared on his doorstep two evenings later.

"Irene's at bingo" he told her, hoping against hope, it was the Missus and not him, that she needed to see.

"I know," she'd told him as she'd stepped inside, closing the front door firmly behind her and reaching for him.

It had been the same the second time round; almost silent save for their frantic moans of mutual desire, an agony of passion and almost primal need. She'd held him afterwards, turning his face to hers, her eyes bright with tears.

"I know it's wrong……what we're doing is wrong, but I can't stop it. I need you, Gene. When I'm with you…..here…….like this, I can forget everything. It all goes away. There's nothing else but you and me."

He'd known exactly what she'd meant. It was their own personal form of oblivion; a shared way of grieving. They couldn't talk about how they felt, couldn't make anyone else understand and so they'd lost themselves in each other, each taking a brief sort of comfort as they both spiralled up into an ecstasy that not even grief could touch.

They continued their dark and ultimately doomed affair for just under two months. It was as though they were drugged; addicted to one another. They were fortunate that Irene had such a busy social life, knowing that she would definitely be out most evenings at bingo or at something to do with the church. He'd never once tried to reduce the risk of her discovering them and suggested that maybe they should meet at Annie house instead. It sounded laughable under the circumstances, but he'd known that it would have been completely wrong. So they always met at his house, always made love in the spare bed, the atmosphere fraught with their desperate, intense passion, always huddling up together afterwards under the faded but treasured patchwork quilt that had belonged to his Grandmother. He'd lay curled around her, his sense of guilt almost too much to bear, as he waited for Annie to compose herself enough to walk home. She'd always cried when it was over as the remorse and the hopelessness set in. "I'm sorry" she'd whisper as she clung to him. "I'm so sorry," and he'd never known for sure if she was apologising to him or to Sam.

He'd offered to drive her home but she'd refused every time, saying that the fresh air cleared her head. Privately, Gene had always thought that she'd never wanted the connection with him to continue in the outside world. He'd known how she felt. He'd almost been able to convince himself that it was all a dream, something that only existed with in the four walls of that room; an unreal encounter that was just a product of his grief stricken mind.

It had been all too real though, when they'd eventually been caught out. It had been inevitable that one day Irene would return home early, and she'd opened the front door to find them kissing each other goodbye in the hall.

"Bingo was cancelled so me and Elsie went to the pub but I didn't fancy staying out that late, so I've come home. There's that film on telly this evening, the one with that blonde woman from that soap…." She'd tailed off, staring at them in horror and Gene had known that there was no way of hiding what was going on, no mistaking the way that he and Annie had both been clinging to each other in their guilty pain.

Ten minutes later, and Irene would have never suspected a thing; Annie would have been gone, and the spare bed would have been neatly made once more, with nothing to indicate that anything despicable had ever taken place there. Instead, the evidence of how great his betrayal was had been clear for her to see, both in the tangled bed sheets and the sweet smell of Annie's perfume on his skin.

Irene had slapped his face so hard that the force of the blow had his knocked his head against the wall. He'd said nothing; he'd deserved it and there was nothing he could say, except sorry and that wasn't nearly enough. He'd sat numbly in the front room as she'd packed, listening to the bump, bump, bump of her suitcases as she'd dragged them down the stairs. The taxi driver had taken one look at Irene's face and had hurriedly loaded her luggage into the boot, before scuttling back to the safety of his cab.

"Irene…..don't go." He'd tried to make her stay, but it had been useless. What he'd done was unforgivable and he knew that she would never be able to see it any other way.

"You bastard! How could you?" she'd hissed at him, her face stricken, her voice trembling. He'd reached out a hand to her, but she'd wrenched her arm away from him. "Don't you touch me! Don't you _DARE _touch me!…." She'd shaken her head at him in total disgust. "How could you do this to me, Gene? Annie was my friend." She'd stumbled from the house, and he'd watched as the taxi pulled away from the curb, leaving him alone and devastated, his whole world in ruins.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And that was that. After Irene found out about us, Annie left Manchester and went to live in Nottingham with her Auntie Joan. I never saw her again. She refused to have anything to with me. I suppose she was too ashamed at what we'd done. The Missus divorced me and took everything; not that I had much in the first place, and I wasn't really in a position to complain about it anyway. I was just bloody grateful that she agreed to keep it all quiet." Gene shook his head, his gaze far away. "It was one of the worst times of my life….I can't even justify it by saying that I loved Annie because I didn't; I just needed her. I did care about her though, even though it might not seem like it." He looked over at Alex, his face full of worry. "You don't hate me, do you, Bolly? I couldn't deal with that."

Alex leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, inhaling the familiar spicy scent of his aftershave. "Oh Gene……I have been married to you for twenty-four years, my love and there's nothing you can say that would make me love you any less. Of course, I don't hate you. It was a long time ago and I can understand why it happened. It's very common when people are bereaved. Sex is a form of grieving; a way of re-affirming that you are still alive underneath all the pain."

He laughed wryly. "That's more of your touchy-feely psychology bollocks isn't it?"

Alex nodded, reaching out a hand and smoothing his hair back from his forehead.

"How do feel about it now you've told me?"

"Better…. I can let go of some of the guilt."

Alex watched him as he stared into his pint glass, his eyes clouded with memories. Come on" she coaxed him gently. "Let's get something to eat. It's a long drive back to London and I am hungry after all."

"Who says I'm letting you drive?" he growled, recognising her effort to change the mood. "I'm not sure I want you behind the wheel of my car." Alex smiled at his familiar, affectionate teasing. Gene's Jaguar XK was his pride and joy and he was just as protective of it as he had been with every other car that he'd ever owned.

"You've had two pints and a whisky already," she told him with a reproving smile. "If you want to drive, you should have stuck to mineral water like I did."

He chuckled, knowing that she was right, as always.

"You stay there, luv. I'll bring you back a plate," he told her as he struggled to his feet and limped off in the direction of the buffet. Alex let him go, knowing that he'd soon be deep in conversation with old friends again. Aware that she hadn't spoken to them yet, she was just going to see if she could find Annie's son or daughter, when she spotted Dennis making his way over to her. She stood up as he reached her table, holding out her hand as she did so.

"Dennis, it's so nice to meet you at last. I'm only sorry that it's in such terrible circumstances. Annie will hugely missed. She was a remarkable woman."

Dennis shook her proffered hand firmly and gave her a sad smile. "It's very good of you to say so, Mrs Hunt. I know that Annie thought a great deal of you also, and that's why I have a favour to ask of you. Could you and Mr Hunt possibly wait behind until the other guests have left? There's something that Annie wanted you to have."

Alex assured him that it was no trouble at all, and Dennis seemed greatly relieved at her reply. "Thank you so much. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll just go and check on Annie's mother. She's very frail these days."

Gene returned shortly afterwards carrying a plate piled high with sandwiches and sausage rolls and so Alex abandoned her attempt to pay her respects to the rest of Annie's family. "There was quiche as well," he growled tetchily, "but that's not proper food; it's just eggs and bloody air."

After they'd eaten, Gene happily ensconced himself at the bar with his old mates, all them getting steadily more and more rowdy as the years slipped away and they were young again and Alex had sat with Annie's mother, listening to her talk about Annie as a child. After a while, Ray and Chris came to say their goodbyes and eventually, only Gene and two of his old colleagues were left. Alex was about to try and prise him away from them, aware of what Dennis had asked of her, when Stephen appeared.

"My father's in the other room, Mrs Hunt. If you don't mind he'd like to talk to you in there as it's a little more private."

"Of course. I'll just let my husband know that he's ready to see us."

Stephen put a hand on her arm, as she moved to fetch Gene. "If you don't mind, he'd like to talk to you alone first, before he speaks to your husband. I hope that's OK? It's just that this was how my Mother wanted things to be done."

Alex gave him a soft smile. "It's perfectly OK, Stephen. I quite understand."

She made her way into the room where the buffet had been, to find Dennis standing alone by the window. Alex realised that for some reason, she was unaccountably nervous as she approached him. He said nothing, waiting until she'd reached his side and then, with a deep breath, he reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a letter.

"Annie wanted you to have this. We all talked about it before she died and we all agreed that it's only right. She was adamant that you should read it first, though. She felt that you'd know how to make things easier." He broke off, his eyes filling with tears. "I'll be at the bar if you need me, Mrs Hunt," and he left her alone, holding a simple cream envelope with her name written on it.

She opened it slowly, knowing without any doubt that she was going to read Annie's version of what had happened between her and Gene. _It's OK, Annie. He told me. I know all about it and I don't blame you._ Alex sent up a silent prayer to her friend as she unfolded the single sheet of paper. The handwriting was shaky, an indication of just how ill Annie must have been when she'd written it, and Alex found that she had to sit down as a wave of sorrow gripped her. She scanned the letter quickly, the heartfelt phrases leaping out her, making her chest ache with grief.

"_Dear Alex, _

_I wanted so much to tell Gene this in person, but I was scared and now it would seem that I've hesitated for just a little too long and it's too late. The doctors have told me that I only have a few days left and I know that I'm not strong enough to face him ………… I have discussed this letter with Dennis and the children and they are happy to fulfil my dying wish……. So I'm writing to you, my dear friend, and asking for your help ……… What Gene and I did was wrong…I knew that at the time and I've lived with the guilt all my life. That said, I need you to tell Gene that I cared for him very much…. He was there for me when I needed him and he gave me something irreplaceable…... I will always be eternally grateful……__ Please tell him how deeply sorry I am for the hurt and pain that our affair caused him……… I never meant to hurt or deceive him in anyway…….. It was just too difficult to deal with under the circumstances……..I decided that it was better to say nothing…….I know that I can trust you to do the right thing and tell Gene the whole truth……. Help him to understand and to forgive me, Alex. _

_Say a prayer for me when I'm gone._

_Annie"_

Alex found that she couldn't see for all the tears blurring her vision and she fumbled in her handbag for a tissue. When she'd finished wiping her eyes, Alex looked up to see a tall figure standing in front of her and she smiled tremulously. "I'd have known anyway, the minute I saw you, even without your mother's letter. You have his eyes. They're unmistakable," she said, her voice breaking slightly.

Annie's daughter, Samantha Tyler smiled uncertainly back at her. "My mother always told me that I was named after Sam….. that she gave me my first name because it's what he would have wanted........that he would have been a fantastic dad…...She used to say to me, '_I named you for your father, sweetheart, even though he never knew you._' Her voice wobbled slightly. "And it's true.......my middle name's Eugenie; it's a bit fancy for a lass from Nottingham, but now I know why she chose it……." She gave Alex a beseeching look, obvious searching for some reassurance. "My mother said that I could trust you, Alex. Can I?"

Alex nodded firmly. "Yes, you can. You can trust me absolutely." She stood up, all her instincts telling her to give Samantha a hug. To her relief, Samantha returned the gesture, and Alex could feel that she was trembling ever so slightly. "I'm so sorry. This must have come as a terrible shock for you."

Samantha shrugged and just for an instant, Alex could see Gene clearly in the insouciant lift of her shoulders. "It was a little, even though I've known that there was something not quite right ever since I found my birth certificate as a teenager. The dates just don't add up. I was born on the 21st of December 1980 and I know that Sam died in the January of that year. I never said anything because I wasn't sure I wanted to know the truth."

"And how do feel now that you do know?"

Samantha thought for a moment, pushing her lips into a familiar, considering pout. "Relieved……. excited….scared….." She met Alex's gaze and she suddenly looked like a frightened little girl despite her tough reputation. "What if he doesn't want to know me."

Alex reached out and caught her hand. "He will, I promise. He always wanted a child but it just never happened for us." She studied Samantha, her face breaking into a smile as she did so. The more she looked, the more she could see traces of Gene in the young woman standing before her; in her eyes, in the set of her mouth, in her mane of blonde hair. "Trust me. He is going to love you. Just don't let him bully you into transferring to the Met."

Samantha laughed and Alex was glad that she'd managed to break the tension slightly.

"Alex? Where are you? Dennis said that you had something important to tell me…."

Gene appeared at the doorway, his silver/blue gaze meeting that of his daughter's for the very first time.

Alex stepped forward to take his hand, drawing him closer, knowing that everything would be alright.

"Gene, there's someone I'd very much like you to meet........"


End file.
